


The Personal Day

by HeyMurphy



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Fever, Gen, Hank is extra grouchy when he's sick, Hank is such a sadsack I love him, Hurt/Comfort, I wasn't trying to make this shippy but if you wanna read it that way please be my guest, Sickfic, Whump, there are lots of fuckwords in this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-06
Updated: 2018-06-06
Packaged: 2019-05-18 22:09:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14861181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeyMurphy/pseuds/HeyMurphy
Summary: The more Hank spoke, the more Connor understood the truth of the situation. The detective’s gruff baritone grated through his chest like churning gravel, and the fluorescent light from the kitchen glistened in his wet eyes. Connor observed the bathrobe, the woolen slippers, and the drawn, exhausted way Hank was breathing.“You’re sick, Lieutenant.”





	The Personal Day

**Author's Note:**

> Just a short & sweet sickfic starring our favorite buddy cops~

Hank didn’t arrive to the precinct on time, which in itself wasn’t so unusual. But noon passed by, then one o’clock, then two. Three o’clock. Connor busied himself with some overdue logging and filing of evidence, waiting as patiently as he could while staring at the empty desk across from him. After his third failed attempt to reach Hank by phone, Connor ducked out of the office a little after four o’clock and went hunting through the bars, but there was no sign of him.

Checking the detective’s home remained the last option available, and if he truly was at home that meant something was probably wrong, which slowed Connor’s stride as he approached the front door. Even though Hank had seemed in decent spirits since the ordeal with Markus and the deviants, Connor often remembered that revolver with the single bullet lying on the linoleum. 

After a swift knock and no answer, Connor rang the doorbell a few seconds longer than was acceptable for a polite social call. Sumo barked inside and footsteps slowly approached to answer the door.

Hank shoved his head out, perfectly alive and intact, much to Connor’s relief. “Oh. Connor. Right. Should’ve figured you’d show up at some point today.” Swinging the door wide open, Hank invited him in. Connor was accustomed to seeing his friend dressed casually in his own home, normally in an old hoodie and jeans. Even when Connor had discovered him passed out drunk that night, he’d been in a t-shirt and shorts. It was a new sight, then, to see Hank’s slouching frame draped in a thick bathrobe, the hems of his flannel pajama pants dragging on the floor, a low-cut undershirt revealing curls of gray chest hair.

Connor decided against commenting on his appearance, instead reaching to give Sumo a scratch behind the ear as he stepped across the threshold. He entered the living room and stood beside the sofa while Hank gathered up a collection of bowls and beer bottles from the coffee table and dropped them in the sink. 

“So,” he said to Connor over the running water, “what brings you all the way over here, huh? They assign us a new case?”

“No, I actually just wanted to make sure you were all right.”

Hank shook the water out of the last beer bottle and returned to the living room, drying his hands on the robe. He was wearing slippers. “You did? You could’ve just called.”

“I tried to call but you didn’t pick up, so I became concerned.”

“Concerned?” Hank took a moment to process that with a lift of his brow and felt the pockets of his robe, fishing out his cell phone. “Ah, shit. Three missed calls. Sorry, Connor. I had it on silent earlier when I was asleep.”

Something felt strange but Connor couldn’t quite ascertain the problem from the evidence he’d already gathered. He chose to be direct. “Lieutenant, why did you stay home from work today?”

Hank huffed out a sort of half-laugh and sniffed. “What, a guy can’t just take a day off?”

“You hadn’t cleared that with Captain Fowler. I checked.”

Hank’s eyes fell to his feet. He nodded slowly. “Of course you did.”

Connor pressed his lips together and tried to find more appropriate words to get his meaning across. “I apologize. I don’t mean to scold you. I’m just curious, that’s all.”

Continuing to nod, Hank shuffled towards the sofa and sunk into the cushions with a grunt and an exhale that sounded much too tired. “It’s fine, Connor.” He raked his knuckles against his eyelids and sniffed for the second time. “Just needed a personal day, y’know? Felt like having myself a three-day weekend. That’s not a crime, right? I think I’ve earned it given everything that’s happened.”

The more Hank spoke, the more Connor understood the truth of the situation. The detective’s gruff baritone grated through his chest like churning gravel, and the fluorescent light from the kitchen glistened in his wet eyes. Connor observed the bathrobe, the woolen slippers, and the drawn, exhausted way Hank was breathing.

“You’re sick, Lieutenant.”

Hank shifted on the sofa and waved off the accusation. “What? No, no, nothing like that. I, uh—” He choked out a cough as Connor lowered himself squarely onto the cushion beside him. “Hey! Really, I’m good!”

But Connor was certain of his conclusion. He lifted his hands to rest them just below Hank’s jaw on either side of his neck. Hank swallowed at the sudden touch, Adam’s apple straining, but said nothing, just sat there dumbfounded and blinked those bleary blue eyes. Information came at Connor fast and validated his unease. “Your heart rate is elevated.”

“You’re damn right it’s elevated!” Hank’s voice squeezed out him and he grabbed Connor’s wrists, though he didn’t attempt to remove his hands just yet. “Would you knock it off?”

“And you have an internal temperature of 101.7. That’s a serious fever. It’s possible you’re suffering from a virus.”

“What’re you, fucking Web MD? Let go of me!”

Connor didn’t let go. He set his own mission and was determined to complete it. He would make sure Hank got well again. “I’m only trying to help. Now please, open your mouth and say ‘ahh’.”

“What? No! Fuck you.”

“This will be a lot easier if you just humor me.”

Hank grumbled and made a face like a pout, releasing Connor’s wrists. “Jesus. If it’ll get you to leave me alone.” He rolled his eyes, sighed hard, and started to crane open his mouth. “Ahh.”

The back of his throat was raw and red. Connor expected as much. Still, if he didn’t know exactly what Hank had contracted he wouldn’t know the best method of treatment. “I’m going to attempt a diagnosis,” he said. 

Before Hank had a chance to ask what he meant by that, Connor pressed two fingers into Hank’s mouth, gliding across the surface of the man’s overwarm tongue, and then touched those fingers to his own tongue the same way he’d been built to process evidence at crime scenes. The action was over quick, the diagnosis nearly instantaneous. 

Hank balked at him, blood pushing to the surface of his skin to bloom a rapid, embarrassed blush. The hand that Connor still held against his neck registered a spike in his pulse. “Did you just—” His words shook. “Did you just put my spit in your mouth, you stupid asshole?!”

Connor offered a pleasant smile. “Don’t worry. Since I’m inorganic, I can’t catch anything from you.”

“That’s not what I—” Hank coughed and sputtered but smothered the outburst into the sleeve of his robe. “I’m gonna be sick.” He lurched to his feet and stumbled towards the bathroom.

When Connor reached him, he was hunched over the sink splashing water into his face. Fat streams dribbled from his beard into the basin and his eyes fixated hard on the drain. Connor fidgeted with his hands for a second before stepping onto the tile. “It’s just a simple coronavirus,” he said softly. “You’ll recover in the next two to three days as long as you rest and get plenty of fluids.”

Hank twisted the knob of the faucet and the water stopped. He sniffed but didn’t say anything.

Connor flinched. “And...I’m sorry I did that. I violated a personal boundary. I was only trying to help, but, well, I realize now that I should’ve asked first.”

Still no reply. Hank must’ve been furious with him. Perhaps the best course of action would be to leave and allow his friend to calm down on his own before attempting further conversation which might only exacerbate his anger.

Connor started to step backwards out of the bathroom when he heard Hank’s breath hitch. With his head still tilted down, face obscured by his gray hair, it sounded as if he were beginning to cry. Something cold and knife-sharp cut through Connor’s system, but just as he moved to put a hand on the lieutenant’s shoulder to comfort him, Hank curled in against the sink and sneezed violently. He groaned, gasped, and sneezed again, punctuating himself with a pained, “God _damn_ it.” 

“Lieutenant? Are you all right?”

Hank sniffled and tossed his head back, blinking against the bright lights above the mirror. “Yeah,” he said, “and now I think I’m gonna lay down on the floor here and die if that’s cool with you.” That morbid sense of humor never quite sat right with Connor given Hank’s history, but at least this meant he felt well enough to be ironic.

Connor pressed his palm to Hank’s back, noting the sickly heat radiating through the robe. “How about you go lie down in bed and get some sleep instead? That seems like a much cooler option to me, Lieutenant.”

After a forceful cough that might’ve been an attempted laugh, Hank cleared his throat and gave Connor a bristly grin. “Fine,” he said. “You’re no fun.” And he allowed Connor to help him into the bedroom.

 

* * *

 

Hank woke up and immediately regretted it. His head was heavy and baking and pounding and everything hurt and also he hated being alive. A thin strand of hallway light from under the door helped him get his bearings. He was in his bed. In his house. What day was it? It was dark beyond the curtains. What time? What was happening? Did he miss work?

Connor. Connor had come over. Because he had stayed home sick from work. That’s right. He was sick. He certainly felt sick so that added up.

He struggled in the sweltering sheets, unable to figure out what his limbs were doing. Spatial reasoning proved too difficult. His brain was too hot. Everything was too hot. He pushed and grunted and groaned and finally rolled from the bed onto the floor. Progress. Look at him go, world. Nearly to the door, to the hallway light. Just had to stand.

Come on, old man. Up, up, up. Hank’s knees buckled once, then twice, but on the third attempt he tripped forward and ran into the wall beside the door, hitting the light switch, scaring the shit out of himself. He squinted, shielded his eyes, fumbled around with his hand trying to make it dark and nice again.

The door opened, and then there was a click, and the bedroom went black. Someone put their arms around him, kept him upright when every muscle in his body begged to lie flat again. “Hank,” this person said. They sounded familiar but his hearing wasn’t too good at the moment. He was so disgustingly congested he could barely breathe.

He must’ve not been paying attention because he suddenly found himself in bed again, staring up at the person who had said his name.

Connor. Connor was still there? He didn’t leave? Why? What was he doing? Had he stayed to take care of him? To take care of a busted up old man who hadn’t bothered to tell anyone he was staying home sick from work because he figured no one would even miss him anyway?

“Please don’t cry,” said Connor. It was gentle. Wait, he was crying? “Your fever’s rising again. Shh. I’ll bring you some water and some more medicine.”

More medicine? He didn’t remember taking any to begin with. Wow, he was fucked. Better sleep it off. Sweat it out. Jesus Christ, he was so hot.

 

* * *

 

Connor unclipped Sumo from the leash the moment they got inside and hummed as he closed the door behind them. He passed from the living room into the kitchen, fully intent on cleaning out the fridge and wiping down the shelves inside. He’d already vacuumed, mopped, done the dishes and laundry, dusted, and groomed Sumo. He was running out of chores and he hoped Hank would recover before that happened. He paused when he spied something in his peripheral vision. Hank, stripped down to his undershirt and boxer shorts, stood in the hallway close to the bedroom door, leaning one hand on the wall and looking strangely lost in his own house. The sight of him upright after so long was such a comfort, such a good, warm sensation in Connor’s chest.

“Hank!” Connor approached, smiling. “Lieutenant, you’re awake.”

“Guess I am,” Hank replied. His eyes were bloodshot and he was pale and damp with old sweat. 

Connor’s fingers found a soft, yielding point below his jawline and registered his updated temperature. “99.9. That’s definitely more manageable. Still need to do something about that heart rate, though. Come, sit down and have some water. You’re dehydrated.” He let Hank use him for physical support and walked him into the living room. “I was able to wake you up long enough to put some food in you, but that was thirteen hours ago. You must be starving.” He set Hank gingerly on the sofa, not wanting to jar him now that he knew just how fragile the man could be.

“Thirteen hours?” Hank scrunched up his face. “Wait, how long was I out?”

Grabbing a glass from the cabinets and filling it in the sink, Connor answered, “Nearly twenty-four hours. It’s Saturday evening.” He fetched ice from the freezer and brought the glass over to the sofa. He tried to hand it to Hank but Hank just stared up at him. “What is it?”

“You stayed here?” Hank asked. “For that long?”

“Of course. You were in no condition to be left alone. A man of your age with such a severe fever—”

Hank snatched the water out of his hand. “Okay, I get it. I’m fucking old. Sorry to be a burden.”

“You’re not a burden,” snapped Connor, and he realized too late that it was indeed a snap. Something about Hank’s flippant self-depreciation made him angry and defensive of the man. If Hank wouldn’t appreciate himself, Connor would appreciate him twice as hard for the both of them. “I was happy to be able to look out for you, Lieutenant. It was...really nice.” He’d started so strong but gotten embarrassed. ‘Nice’ was too simple a word.

Hank sipped at his water and nursed his head. Connor thought he heard a sniffle. “Well, thanks then, kid. Sorry. My default setting’s stuck on ‘fucking asshole’ apparently.”

Connor weighed his conversation options, trying to figure out which approach would be appropriate. He smiled and decided. “Well, I happen to like this fucking asshole.”

Hank’s eyebrows peaked up like a sad dog. “You do, huh?”

Connor settled in beside Hank on the sofa and drew him into a hug before he could convince himself not to. The muscles beneath Connor’s fingers tensed and shook, arms clutched him tighter, breathing stuttered. For a long while they sat just like that, Connor rubbing Hank’s back and Hank silently making a puddle of Connor’s shoulder and staring out into the kitchen. 

“Hey, kid?” The voice that eventually spoke was tired and small and right against his ear.

“Yes, Hank?”

“Did you seriously clean my whole fucking house while I was asleep?”


End file.
